Part 20

On the Mohawk River the wooden palisades of Fort Stanwix offered somewhat of an obstacle to the progress of the British regulars. Brave Colonel Gansevoort, who commanded it, swore that he would perish rather than capitulate to the enemies of the American Colonists, but, as the fortifications were weak and the garrison was in peril, a body of militia from the Mohawk Valley marched to its relief. Early in August this force of armed frontiersmen--under rough old Herkimer--started through the forest to succor those who held the place, while one of Burgoyne's generals (St. Ledger) sent a considerable body of troops and Indians to meet the New York farmers. Brant was in command of the detachment of savages, and, realizing from past experience the militiamen would come rather heedlessly through the forest, he planned an ambuscade. Near a rough bridge, crossing a low, swampy piece of ground, he placed his Indians in hiding. In a wide circle they hid around the brush upon the opposite side of the bridge.

As Herkimer's rough followers came slowly through the dense woodland, they little suspected that the Mohawks and Iroquois were crouching there before them, eager and ready to precipitate themselves upon their straggling line. The Americans were even singing, so secure did they feel, and some stopped at the stream to drink. The main body, however, pushed into the clearing beyond, and all had crossed, except the wagon train and the rear guard, when, with a blood-curdling yell, the followers of Brant rushed to their rear so as to stop their retreat across the bridge, and began to pour a murderous fire into the startled Americans.

"Drop to the ground, men," shouted old Herkimer. "Fight the devils from behind the trees. Make every bullet count, and never give in!"

His counsel was only too much needed, for at the first Indian volley every American in the advance guard had been killed. The rest, crouching low upon the sod, took deliberate aim at the yelping Mohawks, and soon held them at bay. Again and again the frontiersmen attempted to get through the hostile line. Again and again they were driven back. A bullet struck grim Herkimer's steed and knocked him to the ground. Another hit the dauntless frontiersman in the leg and splintered the bone. But in spite of the pain in his wound he crawled to a tree, propped himself against it with his face to the enemy, and coolly taking out his tinder box, lighted his pipe. "Pray take yourself to the rear and out of harm's way," cried one of his aids when he saw the bullets crashing around his commander. "No, I will not move," said old Herkimer, with calm decision. "An American general always faces the enemy. Place two of our men behind each tree, for I note that when one man is alone the red devils run in and tomahawk him, after he has discharged his musket. Tell one of them to always reserve his load until after the first one has fired. That will keep old neighbor Brant in check."

The fight had now lasted about an hour, and the Americans were holding their own against the British and Indians, whose wild yells and warwhoops did not inspire them with much terror. But suddenly a tremendous thunder shower burst upon the struggling masses of humanity, and deep roars of the elements, fierce flashes of lightning, and ominous crashings of branches put an end to hostilities. The frightful raging of the storm drowned the yelping and groaning of the combatants. A deluging flood of water poured from the inky clouds, wetting the powder of both Indians and whites, and rendering many of the guns useless. The Indians were awed by the frightful noise of the elements, and, in sullen rage, the dark warriors of Joseph Brant withdrew from the firing line to a safe distance. The Americans, meanwhile, took a more advantageous position and waited with confidence for the renewal of the fight. Their wagons were wheeled in a circle and they crouched by them, determined that death would overtake them before they would surrender.

When the storm subsided, the Mohawks again rushed into the fray, assisted by some soldiers from Johnson Hall, called Johnson's Greens. These men were all neighbors of Herkimer's Americans, and as they came on, those who favored the cause of the Colonies could not resist the temptation to attack their former companions with fixed bayonets. The Greens stood their ground, until, with clubbed muskets, the Americans beat them to earth, while some, in deadly embrace, rolled upon the sod and were shot to death by the Indian warriors. The fighting was furious. Fierce shouts rose above the crack of the muskets, while above the sound of the struggling men could be heard the calm voice of old Herkimer, saying:

"Be cool, boys, be cool. But lick 'em for the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress."

Thus continued the fierce battling in the wildwood, when, suddenly, hoarse cheers arose from the Americans, as with a rattle and roar two hundred men from the garrison at Fort Stanwix burst through the forest and precipitated themselves upon the British and Indians. A wild yell went up as the New Yorkers drove the Indians back, and with a sudden rush broke the English formation. In disorganization and confusion, the allied forces of invasion now withdrew, while, with loud yelps of hatred, the followers of Joseph Brant also made off into the gloom of the deep wood. The baggage and provisions of the English were soon in the hands of the victorious Americans, while several of their battle flags were seized by the hardy frontiersmen from the valley of the Mohawk. Surprise, temporary defeat, and disorganization had been turned into a victory for the grim-visaged followers of old Herkimer. The battle of the Oriskanay had ended in repulse for the invaders.

Brant was now the most detested man in the border. Those who had before been friendly to him prayed for an opportunity to dispatch this venomous Indian. But in spite of his evil reputation, he always denied that he had ever committed any act of cruelty during this savage war, and none has been proven against him, while many stories of his mercy are well authenticated. When Indians were accused of brutality, Brant would reply that the whites sometimes excelled the savages in revengeful barbarity. He defended the Indian mode of warfare, saying that the savages had neither the artillery, the numbers, nor the prisons of the white men, and that, as their forces were small, they had to use stratagem in order to win.

In the summer of 1778--when every frontiersman was in danger and all trembled for their lives--a boy named William McKoun was one day raking hay alone in a field. Turning suddenly around, he saw an Indian near by, and raising his hayrake for protection, cried out:

"Red man, what do you want?"

"Don't be afraid, young man, I sha'n't hurt you," said the Indian. "What is your name?"

"William McKoun," answered the boy.

"Oh, you are a son of Captain McKoun, who lives in the northeast part of the town, I suppose," continued the savage. "I know your father very well. He is a neighbor of Mr. Foster. Your father is a very fine fellow, indeed. I know several more of your neighbors, and they are fine men."

"What is your name?" the boy ventured to ask.

The Indian hesitated a moment, and then replied: "My name is Brant."

"What, Captain Brant?" cried the boy eagerly.

"No, I am a cousin of his," answered the great chief (for it was Joseph Brant), as he turned to go away. Thus, it can be seen that in the midst of war he was not always the bloodthirsty savage.

Another incident well exhibited his merciful side, for when in 1778 the allied troops, under Brant and an Englishman named Butler, attacked the settlements in Cherry Valley, the Mohawk Chieftain entered a house where he found a white woman baking bread.

"How is it that you are doing this kind of work while your neighbors are all being murdered around you?" asked the great warrior.

"We are the King of England's people," exclaimed the woman.

"That plea won't save you today," cried Brant, "for my Indians are murdering everyone."

"There is one Joseph Brant who is a man of big heart," exclaimed the woman. "If he is with the Indians he will save us."

The warrior looked pleased. "I am Joseph Brant," said he. "But I am not in command, and I don't know that I can save you. I will do what I can."

As he spoke, a band of Seneca braves approached the house. "Get into bed and pretend that you are ill," shouted Brant. And as she obeyed the Indians entered.

"There is no one here but a sick woman and her children," cried the Chief. "Leave them alone, for they are on the King's side."

After some talking the Senecas withdrew, and when they were out of sight Brant went to the door and uttered a long, shrill yell. Immediately a dozen Mohawk warriors came running across the fields.

"Here," cried their leader, "take some of our paint and put your mark upon this woman and her children." And as they obeyed he said to her:

"Madam, you are now safe, as all the Senecas and Mohawks will understand and respect this sign. Good-bye and good luck to you."

The allied forces of Butler and Brant captured thirty or forty prisoners in Cherry Valley, but they could not seize the fort, which was well defended by numerous frontiersmen. So marching off with the plunder which they had collected, they soon were back in their own territory. The women and children whom they had captured were exchanged next year for British prisoners among the Americans, but in 1778 Brant and Sir William Johnson again advanced through the Schoharie and Mohawk Valleys, on a campaign of destruction, plunder, and revenge. Burgoyne's army had been defeated. Stout, courageous old Herkimer had died of his wounds after the bloody battle of the Oriskanay, but the English cause was not dead by any means, and the Indians were still upon the warpath.

The English, Senecas and Mohawks numbered sixteen hundred men, and, as they marched into Wyoming Valley, the people took refuge in a structure known as "Forty Fort," while the old men, boys, and a few veteran soldiers who were home on furlough marched out to meet the invaders. The Americans were well armed, were led by an excellent officer, and were fighting for the protection of their homes. Before the opening of the battle, strong spirits were distributed among the defenders, and as a number of the frontiersmen indulged too freely in whiskey and brandy, it helped to defeat the patriot force. The battle opened with irregular firing, but soon steady volleys were being poured into the invaders by the Americans. The British gave way as the Yankee troops advanced, but in the heat of the fray several orders were misunderstood, and the line became confused. At this crisis Johnson ordered a charge of his Indians. With a wild, blood-curdling screech, they precipitated themselves upon the defenders of Wyoming, and soon, in hopeless rout, the Americans were broken into shreds. They were struck down right and left and tomahawked as they fell. The fort itself was next in the hands of the Tories and Indians, who, on a promise that no one would be harmed if they surrendered, gained an entrance to their stout defense. The women and children inside were tomahawked with ruthless slaughter, and with wild yells of delight the followers of Johnson and Brant danced around the hapless victims of war.

Unwilling to trust themselves to the plighted word of a Tory or Indian, some of the patriots plunged into the forest and made their way to the American settlements on the Upper Delaware. Many died of starvation on the way. The woods through which they went have been thus called "The Shades of Death," for, as they plunged onward to Stroudsburg and other havens of safety, in their ears rang the loud screams of their wives and children, while on their brains were engraved the awful sight of burning houses, murdered patriots and wild savages dancing in their warpaint. The massacre of Wyoming was one of the most fiendish in the annals of border fighting.

Brant was now known as the Monster. Historians have stated that he was not engaged in this campaign, and that the Indians were Senecas and not Mohawks. At any rate, he was near the scene of slaughter, for, four months later, he was in a foray into Cherry Valley. In a massacre during this raid a man named Major Wood was about to be killed, when, either by accident or design, he made a Masonic signal, although he did not belong to this order. When Brant saw it, he exclaimed:

"Brother! you shall not die. I am a Mason and will protect you." So he stayed the tomahawk and set the fellow free. It is said that the captive felt under obligations to join the order immediately after his release from the clutches of the hostile Indians.

The summer of 1779 had now come. The Colonists had regained their courage and were determined to put an end to these Indian invasions. So, placing General Sullivan in command of their outposts, they allowed him to strike the Indians in his own manner. This able soldier, dividing his army into three divisions, advanced into the land of the Senecas and Mohawks. His left moved from Pittsburg under Colonel Broadhead; his right from the Mohawk River under General James Clinton, while he, himself, led the centre from Wyoming. Sullivan met the English and Indians under Brant, where now stands the city of Elmira, New York. The Americans outnumbered the enemy and attacked with fury. The Indians fought courageously, but they could not stem the rush of the Colonials, who wished to revenge the massacre of Wyoming. The Mohawks, Iroquois and Senecas were killed by the hundreds. So many fell that the sides of the rocks next to the river appeared as if blood had been poured over them by pailfuls. And soon seeing that all was lost, the Indian warriors fled from their fertile country, leaving their territory with its populous and well-laidout villages, its vast fields of waving grain, and its magnificent orchards, to be destroyed by the patriots.

More than forty villages were laid in ruins. The famous apple orchards were cut down, and these were the product of the toil and care of generations of Iroquois. "Alas," said one old Mohawk brave. "A wigwam can be built in two or three days, but a tree takes many years to grow again." So great, indeed, was the destruction that a peace party arose among the Indians, led by the famous Red Jacket. With great eloquence he spoke of the folly of war, which they had fought for the English, and for which they had been driven from their beautiful valley. "What have the English ever done for us," he exclaimed, "that we should become homeless and helpless wanderers for their sakes?" So strong, indeed, was this appeal that secretly it was determined to send a runner to the American army in order to gain peace at any terms.

When Brant heard of this, he summoned two Mohawk warriors to his camp. "This runner must never reach the camp of the Americans," he cried. "See that he dies on the way!" So the expectant Senecas and other malcontents waited in vain for the answering message from Sullivan and his men. A reply to their proposals never came, for the bearer of their words of resignation was lying behind some great rock in the forest with a tomahawk in his brain.

In October, 1780, the Mohawks had so greatly regained their courage that with the assistance of Tory troops, under Butler, they again descended upon the settlements of the Mohawk Valley. Houses and barns were burned; horses and cattle were either killed or driven off, and those who did not fly to the protection of the stockade were tomahawked. As the Americans pushed through the woods one day, nine stout English soldiers were running through the brush. It was fairly dark, and when they suddenly heard a stern voice cry, "Lay down your arms," they were suddenly aware that they had run into the enemy. Fearing that Sullivan himself was there, they all threw down their arms and capitulated. They were securely bound and led off to a little blockhouse, where, as day dawned they found, to their chagrin, that their captors were seven militiamen of the American army.

But the invaders were not to have everything their own way, for soon the Americans, under Colonels Rowley and Willet, met them near Johnson Hall. The fighting was furious; so furious on the part of the patriots that the enemy retreated to West Canada Creek, where they encamped. It was the ground which old Hendrick had sold for an embroidered coat, but next day it ran red with the blood of the old chief's descendants. Butler was shot and fell mortally wounded by the bullet of an Oneida Indian, who bounded towards him with his tomahawk raised aloft. "Save me," cried the craven Butler, who, himself, had murdered hundreds of Americans. "Give me quarter."

"Hah!" cried the Oneida brave. "I will give you Cherry Valley quarter," and so saying he buried his hatchet in the brain of the enemy, leaving his body as a prey to the wild denizens of the forest, who soon consumed it.

The place of this fierce fighting is to this day called Butler's Ford, and here the Tories and Indians made their last stand against the Colonists. Soon a treaty of peace had been signed between America and England, and this fierce border warfare was to come to an end.

Brant was not forgotten by the English Monarch, and he was given a fine tract of land on the western side of Lake Ontario, where he made his home, had an excellent house, and lived in the manner of an Englishman. Invited again to London, he there was asked to a masquerade, and, as he needed no mask, went in his native costume, with his tomahawk in his belt and his face painted vermilion. There were some Turks present at the ball, and one seemed to be very much interested in Brant's face. He examined it very closely, and at last raised his hand and pulled the Chief's long Roman nose, supposing it to be a mask. Immediately Brant gave a loud, piercing warwhoop, swung his glistening tomahawk around the head of the startled Mohammedan, and almost brought it down upon his turbanned skull. Ladies shrieked and fainted. Waiters fell on each other in a wild endeavor to get away. Champagne glasses and fragile plates crashed upon the floor. All was confusion and uproar until, smiling broadly, the well-known Mohawk brave placed his weapon again in his belt, exclaiming: "Ugh! I would not hurt you for anything. I only wanted to scare you as I did the Americans."

Under half pay as an English officer, the well-known Mohawk Chieftain held a commission of colonel from the King of England, although he was usually called Captain. He encouraged missionaries to come among his people, lived gorgeously with a retinue of thirty negro servants, and took great interest in the progress of his tribe. Yet his life was not an entirely easy one, as numerous enemies plotted against his life. One Dutchman, whose entire family had been killed by Brant's warriors in the Mohawk Valley, swore revenge against him and shadowed him by day and night, awaiting an opportunity to kill him. And he nearly did so in New York, where the Mohawk Chief had taken a room at a hotel which fronted on Broadway. Looking out of his window, he saw this infuriated settler aiming a gun at him from the opposite side of the street, but, as luck would have it, a Colonial officer saw the act, and running to the angry Dutchman, took his gun away from him before he could fire it.

This was not the only attempt against the life of the noted Indian brave. He was shot at one day when walking through the streets, by an unseen enemy in an old outhouse. Startled by this, he planned to return to Canada through the Mohawk Valley, but was told that he would be assassinated if he did so. He, therefore, changed his course and went home by vessel along the coast. In New York State he was detested and hated. Men remembered the awful butcheries of his Mohawks and the carnage of the battles in this state, and had Brant ever ventured among them, he would never have gotten away alive. Sorrowed by events and seeing the gradual disintegration of his tribe, the celebrated warrior spent his declining years in sadness and regret. "Colonel Brant is a man of education," wrote Aaron Burr. "He speaks English perfectly and has seen much of England and America. Receive him with respect and hospitality. He is not one of those Indians who drink, but is quite a gentleman; one, in fact, who understands and practices what belongs to propriety and good breeding."

A remarkable piece of work by this renowned warrior was the translation of the Gospel of John and the Book of Common Prayer into the Mohawk language, copies of which are in the Harvard University. His wife, a half-breed, refused to conform to civilized life, and finally removed to a wigwam, taking some of her children with her and leaving others at her former home. The great chief, himself, died in 1807, at the age of sixty-four years, saying to a white friend with his last breath: "Have pity on the poor Indian; if you have any influence with the great Englishmen, endeavor to do all the good that you can for the poor Mohawks."

Buried beside the church which he had built at Grand River, the first church in Upper Canada, there now stands a monument over his grave, said to have cost thirty thousand dollars. Upon it is the following inscription:

"This tomb is erected to the memory of Thay-en-da-negea, or Captain Joseph Brant, principal chief and warrior of the Six Nation Indians, by his fellow subjects, and admirers of his fidelity and attachment to the British Crown."

The civilization of the white man now sweeps by the last resting place of the red warrior of the Mohawk Valley. His tribe has vanished; his reputation belongs to the ages.

LITTLE TURTLE, OR MICHIKINIQUA: THE MIAMI CONQUEROR OF HARMAR AND ST. CLAIR

Very few Indian warriors have ever defeated the forces of whites sent against them more than once. Nor have many of them exhibited the same talent for warfare that the English have shown. The red man has never cared for discipline or tactics, and has usually fought his battles in a haphazard manner. But there has been one chieftain who has the distinction of having defeated two separate armies of Colonists, with numbers about equal to his own braves. Judged from these successes in battle, and from his sagacity in the council chamber, Little Turtle, a Miami warrior, deserves a position of particular prominence among the American red men of distinction.

When the American Revolution came to an end, the Mississippi River was the western boundary of the United States. Long after the conclusion of peace, the British retained possession of several posts within the limits of the property ceded to the Colonists in the northern portion of the State of New York, and in Ohio and Illinois. These log fortresses became rallying points for the Indians who disliked the Americans, and who, as the tide of emigration swept westward, determined to check it. Although the British no longer fought against the Colonists, they sometimes supplied the hungry savages with rations, and sustained by these the Indians were aggressive, insolent, and sullen. The newly formed Government of the United States made strenuous attempts to pacify the wild tribes, and, for the most part, was successful. But the Miami and Wabash braves, under the leadership of Little Turtle, Blue Jacket and Buckongahelas, formed a strong confederation of Wyandots, Pottawattamies, Chippewas, Ottawas, Shawnees, Delawares and Miamis, who resolved to stop all white men from coming into their territory. Thirty years before, these same tribes had united under the leadership of Pontiac, and, although having a temporary success against the whites, had finally been defeated, as we have seen.